


Ninety-Eight Thousand Words, Approximate

by feardubh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Gen, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Build, Storytelling, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feardubh/pseuds/feardubh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a reclusive writer who lives by himself in his parent’s old house. He released a bestselling book the year prior and is now working on another but can’t really find his groove. He’s also worried about money, so he puts an ad in the paper to rent the spare room. Guess who responds? Mechanic Dean Winchester, the charming guy who gives him crazy inspiration for his novel (and incidentally steals his heart).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Briiiing, briiiiing!_

Castiel groaned and rolled over onto his side, shifting the warm duvet covering his bare torso. Goddammit, it was too early for this.

_Briiiing, briiiiing!_

A low curse and he shoved off his blanket and threw his legs over the side of his rickety bed. The wooden boards were warm beneath his feet but the air cool to his thighs after a night of growing accustomed to the heat of his body and blankets.

 _Briiiing_ -

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr Novak,” Fucking editor, calling at- what was it? He checked his watch as Naomi Celdwater’s voice continued buzzing over the speaker. Seven forty two. Not as early as he’d thought, but still, she ought to know better by now than to call him any time before ten. Writers were antisocial and nocturnal creatures by nature after all, and Castiel especially didn’t enjoy rejoining reality to the shrill ring of his cell phone.

“…Anyways, I was just calling to ask about the book. Have you decided on a title for it yet?”

Oh. Right. The book. Castiel padded to his cluttered desk and prodded his computer cautiously; it awoke with a whirr of greeting (or maybe it was just the heating fan) and the screen flashed to the document he’d been pecking away at before going to bed. “No,” he yawned, shifting to tuck his mobile between an ear and his shoulder so he could nose in a quick edit to that last sentence. “Haven’t got a clue what to call it-“

“Castiel, you need to start getting this together if you want to maintain a decent audience,” she rebuked sharply. “It’s been almost eleven months since you published The Nautical Mile. People will lose interest.”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle waited a decade,” Castiel grumbled into the phone. He didn’t want to think about his last book; loneliness and the pounding sea, a siren’s call painted foamy green and murky blue, the very heart of a vast network mapping the globe seen from the eye of a quiet man on the west coast.

Naomi’s voice rose in pitch. “He created a character that changed how we view detective novels, Castiel- can you say the same? Seth was quirky and interesting, yes, but no Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, yeah." Castiel sighed. "Look, I'll get it done as soon as I can, okay?"

“Look, I’ve dealt with my fair share writers over the years. I know how your type is- eccentric and introverted. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had “you can’t rush art” thrown at me by someone who was getting close to a deadline. But you’ve generally been pretty good at making the calendar. Is something going on?”

He delayed for a second. “No, not really. I just haven’t hit my stride with this.” he returned.

She gave him another chiding for some odd minutes, then said her goodbyes. Castiel tossed the phone on to his rumpled bed. He stood before the desk, hands on his hips as he surveyed the whole ordeal in the gray light. His room was nice for an attic; mostly finished, old wooden floor softened by years of inhabitation. The roof sloped gently, highest at the door but giving the back wall only a span of four or so feet, where he’d shoved a low bed. His desk claimed the wall before the window between the bed and the door and it was cluttered with papers, scribbled notes, knick knacks and a silver laptop. A dresser was across from that, and atop it a small stereo and a little mountain of CDs.

His laptop dimmed and Castiel made no move to awaken it. Instead, he slowly reached over it and pulled at the curtains guarding the window. They were old lacy things over a level of filmy yellow gauze, in that faded-rose-over-white pattern that was becoming so popular in girls’ dresses these days, and they’d been here as long as he could remember. After all, this had been his room growing up.

He threw back the curtains and flooded the room with pale morning sunlight. The window gave a high view over the roof of the kitchen and out across the yard and Castiel stood before it, gazing out as goosebumps rippled over his shoulders. After a moment he blinked once and twitched the fabric shut again. One of the perks of living alone- especially as a writer, an occupation that didn’t require him to leave the house or wear pants- was that wandering down the stairs in nothing but his boxer-briefs at eight in the morning was perfectly acceptable, thank you very much. Castiel shuffled through the room he’d dubbed “library” and then the dining room, skirting through a corner of the living room as he made for the kitchen. The kitchen was nice- the whole house was, really. His parents had bought it when they were young and wealthy, and each of his older brothers in turn had shrugged ownership until Gabriel moved and passed it to him.

Castiel made a beeline for the coffeemaker and punched in instructions. Late-night-Castiel was thoughtful and always prepped the machine before going to bed so that early-morning-Castiel wouldn’t have to bother with sodden grinds. As dark liquid began bubbling into the bulbous glass pot, Castiel stuck his head in the refrigerator for cream. The rich smell of caffeine began weaving its way through the air, bitterness and a touch of caramel. A mug was prepared; quarter cup cream, two spoons sugar, and when the coffee maker was finished with its work he filled the cup and stirred.

Cupping his prize with both hands, Castiel returned to his room. The computer had to be prodded awake again, its fan whirring aggressively as the blue and white document popped back up on the screen. An old schoolmate, a fellow writer by the name of Chuck, had once held a very lengthy conversation with him about putting pen to paper. Endings were hard, he’d said. Castiel disagreed- endings were easy if you put enough meaning in the tail of the middle. And middles were easy too, once he had somewhere to start. Getting from point A to point B was not the problem, it was establishing point A to begin with.

Beginnings were hard. You had to start with a great hook, a catalytic car crash or phone call, the sound of a supporting character saying the main’s name. Some people began with quotes, my daddy once saids and “in the words of whoever” bullshit to give their work some overarching meaning that they’d inevitably forget until they were scrambling to make ends meet in the final chapter. One of his personal favorites started with “let's set the existence-of-God issue aside for a later volume, and just stipulate that in some way, self-replicating organisms came into existence on this planet and immediately began trying to get rid of each other, either by spamming their environments with rough copies of themselves, or by more direct means which hardly need to be belabored. Most of them failed, and their genetic legacy was erased from the universe forever, but a few found some way to survive and to propagate. After about three billion years of this sometimes zany, frequently tedious fugue of carnality and carnage, Godfrey Waterhouse IV was born, in Murdo, South Dakota, to Blanche, the wife of a Congregational preacher named Bunyan Waterhouse. Like every other creature on the face of the earth, Godfrey was, by birthright, a stupendous badass, albeit in the somewhat narrow technical sense that he could trace his ancestry back up a long line of slightly less highly evolved stupendous badasses to that first self-replicating gizmo--which, given the number and variety of its descendants, might justifiably be described as the most stupendous badass of all time. Everyone and everything that wasn't a stupendous badass was dead.”

Castiel sighed, took a sip of his coffee, and sat down to write.

He hadn’t been completely forthcoming with Naomi when she’d asked what was keeping him from the new book. Truth be told, there was something eating away at him, something sitting in a pile of old mail the corner of his desk, and it weighed very heavily on him.

The house, of course, was completely paid for and had been for years. It was a bit too big for Castiel to fill by himself; the master bedroom was left untouched for the occasional visit from Gabriel and the back room, formerly the den, had been converted to a second guest bedroom years ago though he rarely had company. His parents and older siblings had left enough odds and ends for anyone to consider the place furnished, so that much was taken care of.

However, a writer’s salary didn’t cover too much of what was left over. Sure, Castiel had a saving account with which he sometimes splurged- a year prior he’d purchased a new laptop and he always spent a little extra on the organic foods at the grocery store. Beyond that, his stipends were beginning to stretch thin over the remaining bills.

And then the washer/dryer set broke. At once.

He’d bought a new set last month, but it had eaten up most of his security money and the electric bill was steadily creeping up. With his savings in the triple digits and falling, Castiel wasn’t exactly comfortable.

At nine, Castiel flexed his fingers and pushed back from the desk, standing and moving towards the dresser behind him. He shifted through the stack of CDs and pulled out an old collection album from 2003. He set it in the stereo’s mouth and flipped past the first two songs, a live recording and another short he didn’t much care for, until a gentle guitar began over the speakers.

_Hello darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk to you again..._

He turned back to the computer and continued writing.

_Because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping, and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence..._

His phone rang again around eleven.

“Hello, Gabriel,”

“Hiya, little brother!” Gabriel replied cheerfully. His voice was slightly tinny over the mobile’s small speakers, and Castiel tucked the phone close to his ear as his fingers pecked at the keyboard. “Sounds like you’re writing. Should I call back later?”

“No, you’re fine.” He ended a sentence and leaned back into his chair. “What’s up?”

His brother laughed easily. “Not much, not much. Just checking in. How’s it coming?”

Castiel shrugged, remembered that Gabriel couldn’t see such motions, and rattled off a noncommittal answer. One hand picked a pen from his desk and began idly twirling it between his fingers.

“You ever get that washer fixed?”

“No, I got a new one.” His eyes darted to the stack of bills, the corner of the orange electricity letter peeking out. “I ended up spending a lot more than I wanted to, though. Money’s going to be pretty tight for a while.”

Castiel could hear his brother’s soft breathing over the line as he thought. “Okay,” said Gabriel slowly. How much do you need? I can plug a few thousand into your account.”

They both knew that Gabriel could afford to spare a few grand- a lot more than that, actually- but he was loathe to take his brother’s money. “Gabe, it’s not that big a deal,” he returned. “I don’t need anything, I’ll- I’ll work it out somehow.”

There was another pause. “Have you considered renting? I know it’s gotta be pretty lonely up there all by yourself, and you could get a couple hundred off the back room, more for the master. Hell, get some college kid, they’ll take anything.”

That idea was even worse than that of living off of Gabriel- his house? Shared? No thank you. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Castiel said stiffly. “Besides, that’s your room.”

“I know, I know,” his brother sighed. “You do whatever you gotta do, kiddo.”

After Gabriel hung up, Castiel tossed the phone back onto his bed, hoping that no one else would try to bother him. That stack of bills called to him, stupid electric company, stupid appliances. Renting was nuts. He wasn’t exactly the type to be all over the idea of letting someone else live in his house, especially not a college kid like his brother had said. Part of the fun of being a stay-at-home writer was that when he was pissy he could be pissy in peace, and if he didn’t want to wake up until eleven you’d be damned if at ten fifty he wasn’t still lost in a mound of blankets. Living with another meant responsibilities, meant he couldn’t go downstairs in his underwear and put an old Elvis album on the record player and sing loudly with that deep rich voice.

Still.

He needed the money.

“Dammit,” Castiel muttered, flicking his pen aside and opening the laptop’s web browser. His fingers raced across the keyboard and soon he was looking at the front page of the Colorado Daily, the local newspaper. A few clicks later and he’d been redirected through a hosting website to a place called Front Range Classified. He composed a short advertisement and set it to run for a week, in print and online, and then snapped his computer shut with a disgruntled flick of the wrist.

He would run the advertisement for five days. Five days only. If no one came- so be it.

As it turned out, it proved to be a very uneventful week. Castiel puttered along with his writing and received another cajoling call from his editor on Tuesday. Wednesday found him at the grocery store deciding between brands of cereal- he liked the one with the pumpkin and flax, but it came in such tiny boxes that he was considering switching to something the store more regularly stocked. Thursday came and he took a quick jog before deciding that he might be coming down with something and cut the run short.

Friday dawned a bit too early for Castiel’s liking; he stayed in bed long after the sun rose until the errant thought that someone might come by forced him to pull himself out from the blankets and into respectable clothing. It was a good thing, too, for he was barely tugging on his jeans when he heard the low growl of an engine approaching.

_Tap tap tap._

Three steady knocks on the front door. They were loud enough to be heard reverberating through the entirety house but they were not the low poundings of an obnoxiously closed fist on the wood; rather, the sharp rapping of two knuckles. Castiel took the stairs two at a time and unlatched the deadbolt. Whoever it was had gone around the side to the formal front door.

The man was taller than him by perhaps half a hand, standing on his front porch with an easy, crooked grin. His tanned skin was dotted with a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; above, clever eyes the color of endless forests glimmered teasingly. Those eyes knew secrets. Castiel gave him a quick once-over; leather biker’s boots and long legs sheathed in faded denim, more leather in the well-aged jacket over the open plaid button down and a simple black t-shirt

“Hey,” the stranger said, offering one hand. His voice was rich and drawling. “My name is Dean Winchester, and I saw your ad in the paper.”

“Ah.” Castiel shook his hand and then stood back and held the door for him. The guy looked like one of those super-attractive male models, and he was too old to be a college student, unless he was a graduate transfer. Weird. “I’m Castiel Novak. Would you like to see the house?”

“Sure,” Dean grinned as he stepped inside.

Castiel gave him the full tour, starting with the living room and and trooping through the kitchen, peeking through the wide french doors to the back yard and then back out to the dining area, the library before reaching the old den. Dean nodded appropriately, cracking jokes and generally giving Castiel the impression that he was a real charmer.

“This is the room available for rent,” he said as he pushed open the den’s door. Inside was a bed, a desk, and a rug before the old fireplace. Dean looked about appreciatively. “It’s a bit bare for now, but depending on what furniture you’ve got, it could do, I think.”

The man smirked. “I don’t have much- I just drove into town, really. Everything I own is in my car.”

“Yeah? What do you drive?”

The smile widened. “Sixty-seven Chevy Impala.”

Castiel whistled. That must be a real spiffy car. “Nice. What do you do, again?”

“I’m a mechanic, like my dad. Just left Lawrence, Kansas. Picked up a job here, and I gotta say,” he rubbed the back of his neck, gazing about the staircase and library. “This is a fine house. How much is the rent?”

“You’re basically covering the electricity bill,” Castiel said slowly. “I’d set it at three hundred, and we’ll go from there. Now-” He paused, considering. “I’m a writer. I listen to strange music and sometimes I won’t leave my room for days on end. Will that be a problem?”

Dean shook his head. “No, why?”

He shrugged. “Potential housemates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess. In that case, I drink a bit, and like my music loud.” Dean offered, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Should be fine. So, Mr Winchester, what do you think of the place?”

He chuckled. “Dean, call me Dean. And I’ll take it, if you’ll have me.”

Moving his things was easy- he carried literally everything in that shiny black Impala. Dean gave him that month’s rent upfront, in creased and faded bills that Castiel tucked in a drawer of his desk. Castiel gave his new tenant privacy as he carried in a few boxes and a suitcase of clothes after setting up an expensive looking stereo and putting on something that sounded suspiciously like seventies’ glam rock.

Around noon Castiel decided to stop hovering nervously in the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, fresh bread and ham, ripe tomatoes. Dean joined him as Sisters of Mercy thudded quietly in the background. “So, you’re a writer, yeah? Published anything?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got something out. I’m working on a new novel as well.”

Dean leaned casually against the counter, his jacket gone and plaid sleeves rolled up to reveal well-muscled forearms. A gold pendant hung about his neck. Every so often, Dean’s fingers would dart up and brush across it as if he was reassuring himself that it was still hanging there. “What’s the new one about?” he asked.

“It’s post-apocalyptic,” Castiel shrugged. “Supernatural beings, demons and shape shifters and the like, are pitted against one another and lower class humans in underground fighting rings. The main character is an angel and a decent fighter. I’m not sure where exactly I’m going with it, though.”

“Sounds interesting,” Dean replied. “You should get in touch with my brother; he teaches about all kinds of mythology and lore. Might be useful.”

He nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. “I just might do that, thanks.”

Dean ambled back to his room, leaving Castiel with the scents of leather and whiskey and scattered thoughts. This was strange, but not as bad as he’d expected; then again, Dean hadn’t been there but a few hours, so he’d have to wait and see. At six he announced that dinner was catch as cat can, and that they could work out a cooking schedule if they needed to. Then he escaped to the attic and added a bit more to his writings before tucking in early.

That night, Castiel dreamed, and he dreamed of green.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Laileh. Castiel and Dean share lunch.

_Click._

_His thumb rolled smoothly with a quiet grinding along the ridged barrel, causing a small firework of golden sparks to flair at the small silver mouth. Another flick of his finger, this time ending on the red pad below the starter, and a small tongue of flame licked out. The man removed his thumb from the pad and it winked out._

_The man repeated this action several more times before pausing and considering the object in his fingers; a slightly flattened plastic cylinder colored an unobtrusive shade of faded brown capped with a metal starter. BIC emblazoned at the top in yellow and black._

_He really ought to be conserving fuel, considering how much he’d paid for the lighter; three battered cans of beans and two vouchers. A few night’s slow work. Canned food was hard to come by, too, seeing as every factory that had churned them out before the war had been shut down years ago. At least he was near enough to the city’s center that meal vouchers were worth something; farther out on the outskirts of town and in the nomadic groups, people would sneer if you tried to give them paper as payment. Outside of a day’s walk from the center, that’s all a voucher really was. Useless paper. Of course, so was antique money. He’d seen some, here and there in the bags of collectors and such, older folks who claimed there was a time green slips were all anyone used. Jeremiah, the man who’d taken him and several other kids in many years ago had carried a few crumpled bills around with him._

_The corners of his lips turned down slightly as he read, and by the time he got the the end of the second page Castiel’s mouth had pressed into a serious frown. Rereading writing was one of his least favorite things, and he’d read this stupid introduction enough times to make himself sick at the sight of it._

_“Lailah,” someone called from elsewhere in the house. “Time to go.”_

_The man shifted from his crouch and pulled himself to full height, sliding the lighter into a pocket of his ratty tan overcoat. His room was small; a torn mattress shoved against one wall, a stack of milk crates holding his few possessions. He was forever trying to guess the color of the peeling, molded wallpaper. Today it looked green, or perhaps that was the mildew. With a final glance about the hovel, Lailah stepped out and shut the rickety door behind him._

_Jenner was standing in the kitchen with his arms folded across his chest. He was in his normal form, a scrawny late-twenties dude with long dark hair. Later, he’d find one of the back rooms and shift into something beefier, maybe that wolf-snouted blond that he’d been preferring lately. In the ring annet would be pitted against shifters like himself or other fighters of high rank._

_“Lai, let’s go,” he said moodily, stalking towards where the front door used to be. Some sort of blast had taken out most of the front of the house, and they’d covered it with old tarp when they’d decided to move in. “Kaizer, come on.”_

_Another bounced from the bowels of the house; sun-haired Kaizer. He dashed to the kitchen, one shoe off, and skidded to a halt before Lailah, who gave him a skathing look. He tugged on his other shoe and ducked under the tarp, Lailah close behind him._

“Too clinical,” Castiel murmured as his fingers raced across the keys to rewrite the last paragraph. Today was a slow day, the kind he hated; he didn’t have the creative juices to do any actual writing, so he’d just sit and stew in his editing mode for a while. With an exasperated sigh, he shut his laptop and moved to the door, pausing to tug on a pair of faded jeans. Wouldn’t do to go wandering downstairs in nothing but a tee and boxers.

Dean was shifting things inside of his room; his door was half open and Castiel could see him hanging a line of shirts on a rack in the closet. Headphones snaked over his torso and tinny noise spilled out into the room, something banging and full of loud guitar riffs.

“Hello, Dean.”

The man turned, tugged one earbud, and gave Castiel a cocky grin. “Hey, Cas,” he greeted. “Didn’t know you were up. How’s it going?”

He shrugged. Cas. He rolled the word experimentally in his mind like some sort of exotic new flavor, tested it, and decided he didn’t mind the taste. “Writing has its days. It’s like the sea, really- sometimes the tide is out and you can see all of the beauty of the tide pools. Other times, the waves come up and obscure everything.”

“Wow.” Dean hung up another shirt. He was wearing an old band tee, Led Zeppelin, under his leather jacket and dark denim. His boots were sitting by the door. “Very poetic.”

“Thanks.” Castiel leaned casually in the doorframe and spotted a cardboard box full of books by the desk. They were all very worn, perhaps bought used. He himself had purchased a great deal of his collection from library rummage sales where paperbacks were only a quarter or two. “You a Tolkien fan?”

Dean followed his eye to the box and grinned. “Yeah,” he laughed. “Always have been. My brother and I used to love those books as kids.”

He went off on a tangent then, about elves and dwarves and other mythical beasts, gesticulating often as he described the hobbits’ escapades and the wrath of Smaug, the thunder of the Balrog and the triumph of the wizard. Castiel had read the books as a child as well, so he knew the story; what interested him more was the way Dean’s green eyes lit up as he spoke, how his rosy mouth stretched into a lopsided smile. His laughter was rich. Then Dean was tossing his ipod on the bed and moving past him, his sillage of leather and scotch weaving a trail behind as he made for the kitchen.

Castiel trailed after him so lost in thought that when Dean stopped suddenly he didn’t notice and almost ran into him. A large orange cat had curled up atop one arm of the couch and was staring at them with half-slitted eyes.

“Oh. That’s Ra.” Castiel walked forward and put his hand on the feline’s back. “He won’t be a problem, will he?”

Dean shrugged. “Shouldn’t be.” He started forward and offered one hand to Ra; the cat sniffed his fingers and pulled his lips back in a soundless snarl. “Well, maybe,” he amended with a chuckle.

Ra uttered a squeak-like meow, stood, stretched, and prowled towards the kitchen, his golden tail waving high like a king’s banner behind him. Castiel followed and nudged a silver bowl from underneath the refrigerator, which he then began to fill noisily from a clear plastic container on the counter. As the cat ate he turned to the coffeemaker and pointedly ignored the time, electing to make himself a lukewarm cup. Dean watched with careful eyes.

“Did you sleep well?”

By the time he turned back, Dean was busy pulling packaged deli meats from the fridge. “Huh? Oh, sure,” he replied. “Sure beats sleeping in the car.” He held out a package of cheese, a question in his eyes, and Castiel gave him a quick nod before moving to pull two plates from the cupboard.

“Do you do that a lot?” Castiel decided Dean seemed like the kind of guy who really didn’t care where he slept or what he ate- as long as he got to eat and sleep.

“I used to. Did on the drive over,” came the reply, his voice rolling easily. Castiel handed him a knife and he spread mustard over whole wheat.

“You drove all the way from Lawrence? In July?” He watched awkwardly as Dean layered cheese and ham, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he searched for something to do.

“Yeah,” laughed Dean. “My brother and I used to roadtrip all the time during the summers.” A light smile tugged up one side of his mouth, and the soft skin about his eyes crinkled. This man was used to smiling, and smiling suited him well.

“You and your brother, did you do a lot together?”

He nodded. “Everything. Sammy was six years younger than be, and I did a lot of parenting growing up. Our dad, see, he was a mechanic, like me and Bobby, but he wasn’t around a whole lot, and we spent a lot of time on the road. Some people just have that wandering spirit, you know? They don’t feel right unless they’re moving. He was one of those guys. So Sammy and I grew up in that Impala, and when I was seventeen he gave it to me.” A sort of gentleness entered his tone, and that soft smile came again. “During the summers Sam and I just drove. What about you?”

Castiel hesitated, watching the band glint about Dean’s fingers. It looked like a wedding ring, maybe his fathers? It caught the light nicely. He kept getting the feeling, the nagging sense, that Dean was someone who just knew stuff. That he’d been a lot of places. And he probably had, if his stories were anything to go by. Castiel, on the other hand, came from a much more rigid family.

“My childhood was... odd. My parents split before I was born- I might not even have the same mother as my brothers, no one is really sure. They haven’t met Father’s wife, nor have I. We do not even know her name.” He paused. “Michael is the oldest. He received Father’s teachings, his guidance. Luke is second; he claims Father’s love. Raphael is the middle child- we don’t agree with each other on many things. Gabriel was the younger, the spoiled, and he got Father’s indulgence and affections, but in his words things were never the same after Luke left; Father became very distant.

“I came only as an afterthought,” he continued. “I have very few memories of my father. Gabriel acted more as my caretaker, though at his age he couldn’t do much, just make sure I was doing decently. My brothers are all very high in society; lawyers, politicians. Gabriel is the CEO of a sweets company.”

Dean pulled a face. “Big family.”

“That’s not all.” Castiel smiled wanly. “My cousins Anna and Balthazar studied abroad. Balthazar became a major producer- he worked on the Titanic remake, and Anna- we don’t talk to her often. She’s a studio artist.”

“What’s wrong with art?”

“It’s...” Dean sliced the sandwiches into halves, mayonnaise oozing on the knife. “It’s not very esteemed,” said Castiel after a pause. “Nor is art considered a reliable career.”

“Neither is writing, if you think about it.” he commented dryly.

Castiel’s smile tightened. “You’re right. It’s really not much different, I suppose. Perhaps I wasn’t disowned as Anna was because I was quieter, less of a rebel.”

“Dude, I can’t say shit,” Dean plopped a sandwich on each plate and held one out to Castiel. “I’m a mechanic. I’m the lowest on the totem.” He pulled out a spectacular shit-eating-grin. “And as you can see, I’m about ninety-nine percent crap.”

The sandwich was good, and close to how he liked it; Dean must have been paying attention when he’d made his own the day previous, though this one had a bit too much mayonnaise. They lapsed into silence, leaning together against the countertops. Ra finished his meal, squeaked, and padded majestically to the living room.

“He’s a beauty,” Dean murmured, perhaps trying to make up for his earlier jab. “How long have you had him?”

“Near a decade, maybe?”

“Huh.” His brows furrowed. “Sam was always a dog kinda guy. He’s got a big retriever named Bear.”

Castiel nodded appropriately and drained the last of his cold coffee and stacked his dishes neatly in the sink. “I’d best get back to work,” he announced serenely. Dean nodded. He could hear his tenant whistling something as he climbed the stairs, a jaunty tune he’d probably heard somewhere before. Castiel shut his door softly behind him and moved to the stereo, sliding an old album from 2006 into the drive and removing the Stateless disc he’d been playing.

_Jenner was a stickler for punctuality- it was only a half hour walk to the rings, give or take a bit for pedestrians, and they had almost an hour before their first pitting. Kaizer, a low ranking ‘morph, would do a few rounds before the post-supper crowd arrived, and then Jenner would go out for a fight or two. Kaizer’s pay was the lowest of the three though his matches were sometimes harder to call than Jenner’s or Lailah’s, but he would work the slow shifts and might earn in a whole eight hour night what Lailah would be paid for a single round._

_The streets were beginning to empty as respectable citizens cleared the streets and hurried home to their rundown hovels for an evening meal; the sun was dipping over the horizon, long shafts of red light mingling with the growing rooftop shadows. A beggar tugged at Lailah’s sleeve as he passed, smiling wide to reveal jagged, rotten teeth. He shrugged the man off and kept close to his housemates. Most people knew of him, even outside of the rings, and it got tedious._

_The entrance to the rings- one of them- was located in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, its walls slashed with faded graffiti. All scrap metal and wood had long been stripped from the building, but here and then chunks of cracked concrete remained where once people had stashed their belongings. Jenner hurried inside, followed closely by Kaizer, and the guarded nodded to both in turn. Lailah hung back and pulled a battered carton of hand-rolled cigarettes that had cost him almost as much as the lighter, which he also withdrew. Clamping one cigarette between his lips, he flicked his thumb along the starter and lit the tobacco, puffing softly until the heat took. Gray curled about his head like an ever-shifting halo._

_Lailah smoked slowly, allowing the flame to burn well past where a filter would be- not that he’d had an actual machined cigarette in years- until the heat began to singe his finger and each breath scraped at his lungs. Then he dropped the butt, ground it out beneath one shoe, and strode inside._

_The rings were arranged in a line, two small circles on either side of a larger elevated one. The room was massive and had been dug right of out the bedrock many years ago when people still had TNT. It was roughly rectangular with vending booths along one end and betting stands on the other; the wall space between was used on either side for the combatants. These rooms were private and separated from the rings and each other by wooden walls. His was near the far side nestled between the rooms of a witch named Malleus and the angel Harut. During his rise to fame, someone had spray painted a pair of inky wings on his scuffed door, and later another added a halo. Anatomically incorrect, but he still smiled at the vandalism as he pushed through._

_Inside was a wooden bench and a large piece of reflective glass that some lackey had stolen for him years before. Lailah shrugged out of his overcoat and lay it across the bench, then toed off his shoes and removed his shirt. His room was one of the few that had not been utterly trashed by robbers over the years; people desperate for wood would occasionally venture into the tunnels, generally meeting guards who were all too happy to ensure they never saw the light of day again. Oppression did that to people, made them violent and restless. Perhaps because it was far from the entrances, perhaps because of his reputation- either way, his room remained untouched._

_Standing before the mirror in only his pants, Lailah stroked one hand along his left shoulder where a witch’s spell-heated hand had burned a print in the skin the night before. The wound had begun knitting as soon as he’d left the ring, but he was still anxious to avoid scarring. Skin meant everything here, providing a more detailed history than any of the gambling tabs. He stretched, muscles rippling as he twisted to examine his back._

_Glimmering silver lines, almost too small to see, flecked the flesh between his shoulder blades; more curled about his biceps, and a strip crawled atop his hip. Lailah was lucky, with his coloring. His scars were nigh invisible._

_He drew in a breath and suddenly- wings. Dark feathers spilled into the room, the color of midnight and deep space where all the stars bled out, the onyx of a demon’s eyes tinged with the endless blue of his own. Only his largest pair, the flight wings, were brought out as the space couldn’t afford all three sets, and yet the folded arches still reached the ceiling, the tips of his primary feathers almost brushing the ground._

His writing went on discussing the wings for several more lines, its tone varying from a scientific thoroughness and a fanatic, religious zeal. Castiel loved wings, loved them with a passion. He’d done his research of course, sticky notes and memo sheets layering his desk with angelic hierarchy and Biblical naming. A few rough sketches were half hidden beneath one corner of his laptop. Feathers and bones labeled analytically in a clean scripted hand. He’d envisioned Lailah’s wings to be like that of a falcon but scaled to a large degree, giving him the same slant of dark feathers in a twenty foot span.

Dinner that night was a more formal affair; Castiel boiled pasta for two and stewed a sauce from scratch, browning crumbled beef in a pan, small tomatoes, onion, garlic, oregano, mushrooms. He saved most of the meaty bits for Dean and they ate together at the massive dining room table. Conversation was limited, and Castiel lost himself in his reflections as his tenant ate with reckless abandon. First glance made it seem like he was starving, but Castiel was slowly realizing that perhaps that was just how Dean preferred to eat.

When they were finished, Dean offered to wash the day’s dishes and Castiel took him up on it. “I’ll be out of your hair soon,” he promised, announcing that he started work on Monday. Nine to five at the local Time-It! would leave him alone in the house with his thoughts, a fact which he was grateful of.

Belly full, Castiel settled back in his attic and woke his computer.

_At last, two hard knocks at his door. “You’re on in five,” barked a low voice. Finally._

_Lailah stood and pushed out, flaring his wings once he was past the door frame. As the spectators caught sight of him walking alone towards the elevated ring, the already obnoxiously loud hubbub of conversation and cheers rose to a steady roar. The stadium rolled like the ocean about him as views vied and shifted for better positions, but his area was still. The eye of the storm. As he reached the ring, he cast a haughty gaze at his opponent; a she-demon, pale with fear. A new one, fresh up the ranks. She would expect him to go easy on her, because she was soft and frail of appearance; he would not._

_As he reached the entrance to the ring, Lailah’s wings rose to a dramatic position, and he concentrated until a halo appeared about his head. More a nebula of dark like than a circle of gold, this was the symbol of prowess, his mighty grace. As it solidified above his head, the crowd thundered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I spent way too much time on Castiel's novel today. I might expand it and create a whole separate fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to the store.

When Castiel awoke the next morning, sometime after ten, and ventured into the kitchen there was a crisp white note waiting for him on the kitchen counter. The handwriting was scrawling, messy, but still legible. _Dear Cas_ , it began.

_We’re out of milk, so I’m headed out to the store to get some. I’ll pick up a list too so we can write down when things run out and work out a schedule or whatever. You might still be sleeping when I come back- guess there’s no sense in writing this then, ha. But if you’re not, burgers tonight?_

_Dean_

Castiel could almost see Dean as he wrote it, laughing to himself and rubbing one hand across the back of his neck. It was awkward, cute even. He snagged the paper and tucked it into his pocket before fixing himself a cup of coffee and rummaging through the refrigerator. It looked like Ra had already been fed so he wandered back out to the dining room where an expensive stereo sat on the far wall from the table atop a cabinet. He opened one of the cabinet’s drawers and stood for a long minute with his hands on his hips as he considered the selection.

He owned a vast amount of CDs. The first, a 1990 release titled _Ritual de lo habitual_ , had been a gift from Gabriel on his twelfth birthday. He’d begged his older brother to play his copy every morning as they drove to school in his beat up Skylark and eventually Gabriel caved and bought him his very own. He could still taste on his tongue the giddiness of ripping off the packaging and holding the shiny disc in his hands; it was like holding a piece of god.

Since then he became what could only be described as a music junkie; he’d been all over the Seattle-grunge scene of the nineties, just barely avoiding the complete raggedy plaid-and-jeans look because his family would have disapproved. He’d loved rock and roll as a teen, leaning heavily on the King until he settled into a plateau of classical and instrumentals in his early twenties. Lately it had been more of an alternative addiction full of soft indie strains, easy guitar and crooning voices interspersed with harder electronic throws. He surrounded himself with sound, first through rudimentary compact-disc stereos and the last of the tape players, through an old Walkman and the first clunky ipod. The stereo in the dining room accepted tapes as easily as CDs, as did the one in the attic; he’d only recently updated his car’s radio with a five-disc player and an auxiliary hook-up.

In short, Castiel liked music, and he liked listening to it constantly. It formed the background for his writing, and at any point in time he was usually playing something.

One hand reached out and brushed over the cabinet’s collection, over the rows of shiny plastic cases arranged before him. Every so often he would snag a disc from its slot and peer thoughtfully at the title before pushing it back into place. Eventually he settled on one decorated with a gray mass of handwritten words, Decemberists highlighted in red ink at the top. The sound system eagerly accepted the record and began whirring as it loaded.

_Sweet Anabelle as seen reclining on an ocean swell as the waves do lather up to lay her down 'til she's fast and sleeping..._

Castiel hummed a soft accompaniment and nudged the volume higher.

_But oh, if I could only get you oceanside to lay your muscles wide, it'd be heavenly..._

He brought his laptop downstairs and sat with it at the dark dining table. Ra came by after some time and after squeaking a greeting curled up at his feet like a shifting pair of warm slippers. The only interruption came when he returned to the stereo to change the disc.

As it was, he was halfway through Lie Lover Lie when he heard a rumbling growl approaching the house. By the time he stood and lowered his music Castiel could hear the clattering of the wide garage door as Dean parked the Impala.

The door connecting the garage and living room then banged open, and Castiel ventured from the dining room to see his tenant enter, his cell phone pressed between ear and shoulder and his arms laden with groceries in clear plastic bags.

He was smiling, entering mid-sentence: “-older you get, the more rules they’ll try to get you to follow. You just gotta keep livin’ Sammy, l-i-v-i-n-g.” The man paused and winked conspiratorially at Castiel before walking to the kitchen. “Yeah, I hear you. Listen, I just got home- call you later.”

There came much rustling as Dean set about unloading the spoils of his trip; Castiel moved to help and they worked together easily as his music played on softly in the background. Drawn by the sound of the bags, Ra scarpered underfoot and the settled near his food bowl to supervise the unpacking. They shelved ground beef and milk, a new brand of cereal to sit beside Castiel’s usual in the pantry, oranges to join the apples in their bowl on the counter. He noticed several other additions, thick packages of beef jerky and a case of beer, pie in a tin and plastic container.

When the grocery bags sat empty about the kitchen, Dean leaned back against a counter and rolled an orange in his hands, his fingers deftly pulling back the rind. As he did so, a sweet, tangy scent filled the kitchen to mix with Dean’s leather-and-scotch, an aroma that was quickly becoming familiar, and Castiel own subtler smell. It danced tantalizingly between them and he found his mouth watering at the citrus. Castiel watched as if spellbound as Dean brought the sunny fruit to his lips and bit gently, all quick teeth and lush tearing; his mouth shined with moisture as he brought his hand away again. Suddenly self-conscious, Castiel’s gaze darted away and when it flicked back, that rosy mouth was crookedly grinning- he looked up and met green- Dean watching him with a curious, knowing look.

Castiel felt a hot flush climbing his cheeks and he promptly fled the kitchen, a soft chuckle following. Snatching his laptop from the dining room Castiel took the stairs two at a time.

Up in his attic he struggled to regain control as his body rebelled. When had his heart started beating so fast- why was his breath hitched, his palms slick with sweat? He shook his head, trying to lose the confusion, and shut the door tight before flying to the stereo. CDs tumbled as he sought for something soothing, something to block out the man in the kitchen.

An unmeasured amount of time passed as Castiel lost himself in whatever thrumming, electronic haze he’d shoved into the player as it settled him like a drug. Swaying slightly, eyes shut, he didn’t really care. When he heart seemed to have quieted, he moved serenely to his computer and returned to work as if nothing had happened.

Seth, the primary voice of his previous novel, had been a quiet and antisocial man, an ex-taskforce agent haunted by the victims of a serial killer he’d helped to catch. His dreams recounted the events leading up to the arrest and mingled them with imaginings spawned by his retreat to the West coast in late November. Selkies and merfolk tinged his waking mind a dark sea-green with depression and and insanity. Castiel had ended the novel with a monster-at-the-end-of-this-book sort of clause and Yann Martel worthy food for thought.

Lailah’s story was different and proving more of a challenge to write. For one, he had no idea where he was going with it. Castiel had some vague ideas of a great war, perhaps zombies or something equally in style, what with everything from Zombieland to World War Z, Warm Bodies to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies- the undead was the latest fad. Or maybe he’d create an apocalypse of Biblical origins, angels and demons vying for control until the human’s systems and order fell to discordant chaos. He’d already allowed for the existence of the supernatural; angels, demons, witches, shifters all accounted for. The original catalyst aside, he still had Lailah’s character to develop and his plot to explore. So far he seemed too one-dimensional, nothing more than a grumpy ring champion.

Writing gave you a sandbox to play with, but by no means did it make you a god- Castiel decided that it made you more or less a slave to your own vestigial ideas.

Castiel drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk as he proofread the long passages written all neatly in twelve point font. His mind flashed back to the kitchen- sweet citrus, juice easing over those lips as they quirked into a smile, laughter in the twin pools of forest green- before giving himself a shake.

And then he paused.

His fingers flashed out as the gears of his mind began turning.

_There was a disturbance in town early that morning; Kaizer woke the whole house shouting about newcomers, earning himself a blooming black eye from a pissed Jenner, who stalked about the ruined kitchen and glared at anyone who approached with murder in his tawny eyes. Lailah gave him a wide birth and instructed Kaizer to lead him to the civil center where the officials pretended to keep order. All arrivals were required to check in whether they were just passing through or looking to stay, so the center was usually a good place to oogle._

_Just two. He couldn’t really see why there was such a commotion; travelers weren’t that uncommon and groups that size were nothing to gawk at._

_The smaller one turned, and he caught a glimpse of emerald eyes. He was_ pretty _. His face was slick with dirt and grime, hair spiked with sweat, and yet as he shifted and his gaze caught Lailah’s he couldn’t help but marvel._

Castiel wrote well into the early evening, his hands moving frantically over the keyboard to compile his thoughts. Time was marked only in rough intervals when he got up to change the disc in his too-loud stereo and when he finally turned from his computer he could feel the passed hours by the cramping in his fingers and a certain languorous, godlike feeling. He took the stairs quickly and padded past Dean’s closed door. It was later than he’d thought; darkness cloaked the house like a thick veil of blue-grey shadows that stretched across the bushes and shrubbery, coated the well-kept lawn and flower beds. It hugged the kitchen windows and wide French doors leading to the back porch.

A faint smell hung about in the kitchen, salty and rich. Meaty. Castiel nosed his way through the refrigerator for the source but all that greeted him in the cold sterile light was shiny glass containers and cartons of milk, brown boxes of eggs and wine-colored juice. It wasn’t until he noticed the oven’s light was on that he remembered.

Oh. Burgers.

The realization came with a sharp and rather alien twinge of guilt that pressed uncomfortably in his belly; Dean had cooked, perhaps wanted to share dinner with him at the table as they had the night before. He hated the idea, strange as it was, of Dean’s efforts going to waste.

The oven was on very low, just enough to keep the food warm. Two hand-shaped patties grilled a dark brown nestled in white buns, lettuce and red tomato curling slightly from the time spent sitting out. They were delicious, if a little dry from staying in the oven for so long. Castiel ate furtively in the kitchen, shushing Ra when he came snuffling by for scraps. When his plate was clean he set it in the dishwasher- Dean having already washed the dishes- and paced the kitchen.

This whole ordeal was weird. And uncomfortable.

He stood before Dean’s door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There was soft noise within- humming, the rustle of clothing and the shifting of papers. “Uh, Dean?”

Silence, then: “Yeah?”

His low voice wavered slightly; Castiel cleared his throat. “Thanks for dinner,” he said uncertainly.

A gentle laugh. “No problem dude.”

He took to the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest.

This was insane.

_The rings were comfortingly familiar that night. Crowds buzzed, shifting from one ring to the next as fights were scheduled, milling about for food and tickets. Lailah came later than his housemates, arriving alone after the first few matches had began. He moved through the press of people for a while, testing the air, and then retired to his room._

Castiel had decided that the paid fighters would work in shifts, and times were decided by skill. Humans and lower unhuman fighters took the dinner slot and the red eye, while mids claimed the post-dinner and one to two crowds. Higher fighters worked during the busiest shift between ten and one. There was some overlap so Lailah would occasionally see Kaizer preparing for a match or Jenner standing by for the one o’clock pickup. Lailah had only two or three high bidding fights a night, but Jenner and Kaizer had more, but fewer betw were placed on them. When he wasn’t in the ring. Lailah was free to wander around, purchase food, or spend time in his locker.

_As usual, the angel Zephon fetched him from his room before the match with a familiar gruffness. Lailah followed him to the high ring. The crowd seemed unsettled; people shifted about, peering cautiously into the ring and talking amongst themselves. He wondered who he might be up against tonight, perhaps Lilith or Alistair, two of their higher workers. But no, as he passed a cluster of men he heard a low, awed “he beat Azazel,” and that feat would have meant little to those demons. It did however pique his interest. Azazel, Yellow Eyes as he was sometimes called, was one of their very best but he had a distinct and sometimes predictable style which may have been what brought about his fall._

_“What’s the odds?” he growled to Zephon as they took the stairs. The angel paused and peered back at him with a sober look._

_“Just about even.”_

_That was surprising- shocking. They were always in his favor._

_Very well._

_Lailah took a breath and entered the ring._

_His gasp was lost the the roar of the crowd._

_The man standing opposite him was tall and shirtless, his hair recently washed but slicked with sweat. His face no longer bore the grime of travel and instead showed the beginnings of a black eye. The angular jaw was stubbled. He was built heavier than Lailah with his runner’s physique but not muscled to the point of bulk; hard power flexed beneath his skin. He moved with the grace of a lynx. His green eyes flashed._

_Lailah wasn’t sure what struck him more, the fact that this stranger had only arrived that day and was already facing a high-tier brawler or the fact that he had no scars._

_This sent a little thrill of panic through his belly. People didn’t just waltz up to the stands and request a fight- every season a few people who wanted to try their luck were placed in a lottery and the winner was put in the ring during one of the annual shows. It was a big ordeal. So this man wasn’t an amature fresh from the mud. He must have been a seasoned fighter to beat Azazel as well. But to come up without a scratch?_

_It did not bode well._

_Still, Lailah did his best to play the crowd, pulling first one and then two sets of his wings in an impressive display, then flashed his dark halo until the spectators cheered. The stranger looked nonplussed, watching him with amused eyes. He tucked his smaller wings away and shifted into a crouch as they awaited the bell. The crowd quieted. Held its breath._

_Gong._

_The bellboy struck a ringing chord, and Lailah flexed his fingers as the stranger shifted into a crouch like his and eased away from the railing. His wings arched back in a classic defensive posture and little tongues of lightning flashed in his nebula halo. His opponent grinned._

_A foot moved out and they began circling like sharks, testing for weakness. Lailah did not falter. Most of the fight was in the mind, and they were fighting as hard as they could._

_The stranger struck out first, stepping in and feinting to the side. Lailah rolled, shifter, and sidestepped the mock blow before moving in and lashing with a wing. He didn’t like using his wings to fight; they were mostly for show, to inspire awe and fear, but sometimes they proved useful distractions and buffers. Flying was prohibited, but they aided his movements and though he could be severely injured if an opponent grabbed them, he usually kept his largest set out during a match. Here though he struck with his left, sweeping at the man’s head. He ducked, and Lailah quickly retracted the appendage. Growing bolder, he feinted forwards and sent a flurry of blows at his side. All but the last was blocked, and he had first contact, a sharp jab that missed his target and landed in the meaty bit of the shoulder._

_The man pulled back, anger in his eyes, and then he set on Lailah like a dog. He chased his steps from one end to the other as the crowd roared with first blood, managing to clip his chin. Red dabbled at his lips. Lailah landed next with a powerful shove and a knee to the gut that sent the stranger sprawling. The audience cheered._

_The man coughed and Lailah prepared to spring, but he was up again, wiping his mouth. His next punches came fast. Solar plexus. Jaw. Stomach. Lailah coughed and retched blood before moving in with his own assault._

_Most fights were quick. Land a few good hits or take out a vital limb and the enemy was down and the crowd pleased. Not so this time; his heart pounded, his belly ached, and yet the man was still standing. He looked worse off, at least, but Lailah was beginning to feel fear. His wings fluttered and he wavered._

_The man grinned._

_Lailah struck out again with one wing, dodging to the right and buffeting the strangers head to daze him._

_To his horror, he felt fingers digging into his alula feathers._

_The next was a blur. Sharp pain in his wing. The crack of his skull on the ground. The spectators quiet, hushed, holding their breath. A ragged cheer went up for Lailah before cutting off abruptly._

_Dizzy, he felt a weight settle on his hips and looked up to see the man’s face above him, that wry grin on his lips. His opponent was straddling him, his knees spread wide, one hand pinning Lailah’s right wing, the other gripping laxly about his throat._

_The audience was silent._

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel adjusts to life with Dean. They go to Memphis.

_“Who are you?” he growled, his face inches from the stranger’s. Those impossible green eyes glimmered with dark humor. Lailah’s hands tightened on his collar and he pressed the man more firmly against the wall, a warning._

_“My name is Alonzo Mosley, and you’re Eddie Moscone.” the stranger snickered. Lailah shoved a knee in his gut and the man doubled over. “Dekan,” he gasped, slumping against Lailah’s forearms. “Dekan Tridesetšesti.”_

_“That’s right. Outside of the ring, I_ own _you.”_

The thing about Dean Winchester was that loud and boisterous that he was, there were times when Castiel stilled, watching the muscles of his forearms dance and ripple as he stood by the sink washing dishes or while sitting across from him at the table halfway through a meal to glimpse with furtive glances the gleam in his green eyes as he cracked a joke, and caught the notion that Dean was the sort of person who had much to teach and that he’d go about that teaching business quietly. Dean was not a man of words. Rather, he was a man of deeds.

First and foremost Dean could fix anything. Every other weekend found him on his back on the garage floor halfway under his Impala to tinker, and when the dishwasher decided to clog and spewed a mixture of soap and water and rotting food particles, he had it up and running that evening. More than that, he liked to fix things. It made him happy.

A lot could be said for his cooking. What he made was cheap and filling and hearty and nothing like Castiel’s refined dishes courtesy of several cooking classes under a stern Danish man; dirty rice mixed with crumbled beef (and then grudgingly with soy at Castiel’s request), burgers and thick, meaty stews. When Castiel came down with a cold in the chill of mid-September he whipped up a soup so spicy is seared the sickness right out of his sinuses. Dean grinned at that one as he brought up the tray, his eyes gleaming as he told its origin.

Castiel learned quickly that there were topics best not spoken of with Dean. As him about his brother- not during their teens, but as of late- and he’d puff up with pride, but ask about his father and he’d grow bitter and curt. From what Castiel could gather, there was a lot of family tension.

Despite that darkness, Dean proved himself to be bright, effervescent even; where Castiel was reserved and quiet, almost brooding, Dean was crashing through with a quip or a story or some asinine comment. He liked to flirt, with women they met on the street, with grocers and bartenders, with his eyes when he stared at Castiel, his mouth quirked into a teasing grin. He lived to the fullest of feeling. His joys were calm stretches of road with rock music blaring, they were firework bright, just as his anger was hot and red and violent- Sam, and his stupid snobbish professor friends like Ruby, dammit Dad why me, no, Cas, I’m fine leave me alone- and his sorrows, too, in the dull amber liquid left in the line of empty bottles left one the counter after Dean had fallen asleep (passed out) in the recliner.

He was a strange man, one minute making a joke and sharing a long glance, the next curling his lip with personal space. Dean was fierce and mysterious and Castiel could never get a handle on him, but he learned to live with it.

So then, when the day came in late October when he said as they listened to an old record the phrase “I like Elvis” and Dean replied “Elvis, huh? Let’s go to Memphis”, he ought not to have been so surprised.

Dean chuckled, his cat eyes dancing. “Alright,” he said.

“Alright?”

He grinned. “Let’s go.” Castiel stood across the room from him in the doorway to the dining room; Dean lounged barefoot on the couch. “Yeah.” He bobbed his head. “Let’s go.” Dean stood and padded from the living room, chuckling again as he passed Castiel and saw the look of supreme shock on his face.

They met with Sam outside of his apartments, where he stood with two duffel bags. He smiled when he saw them approach and threw one to Dean, and as he hefted the other in one massive hand, he grinned at Castiel. “Hi, you must be Cas,” he said cheerfully.

“That would be me, yes.”

They returned to the car and Dean piled the bags in the back seat with their own, and Castiel found himself shuffled in next to them as Sam stole shotgun. Not that he minded. Sam was different than he’d expected; for one, he was monstrous, all long legs and shaggy hair, taller even than Dean who stood a hand above Castiel. He had an easy smile and deep intelligence glimmered in his kind eyes.

“You ready, Sammy?” asked Dean as he started the car. He then turned to dig through the old cardboard box resting on the console. It was filled with tapes; he pulled a scratched black cassette from the Impala’s stereo and replaced it with a yellowing one with AC/DC written in scuffed sharpie across the front.

“Dude,” Sam said as he snatched up the box and pawed through it. “You really need to update your cassette collection.”

Dean arched a brow, as if to say so?, and he continued. “First of all, _they’re cassettes_.” He shuffled through the tapes. “Second. Motorhead- _Metallica_? Dean, this is the best of _mullet rock_.”

An annoyed look crossed Dean’s face, but he quickly disguised it with a cheerful sort of fuck you expression as an energetic guitar began to play through the speakers. “House rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music-” drums, now- “shotgun shuts his cake hole.”

Sam rolled his eyes as Bon Scott’s voice carried them out of the lot.

They stopped for gas and snacks just outside of Denver, and Castiel watched as Dean ran in to the little store. “Is he always like this with you?”

“Always,” agreed Sam with a snort. “Since we were kids.”

“He said you roadtrip a lot.”

“Yeah,” came the reply. “We drove a thousand miles once for a Jayhawk's game.”

Castiel drifted back to the window and watched Dean bobbing cheerily through the store’s aisles, a red basket swinging from one hand. When he moved to the counter to pay, his head was obscured by a hand painted sign on the front glass.

“He look’s happy.”

He jerked his gaze away, cheeks burning. Sam stared at him kindly.

When the Impala was gassed up and Dean returned with his spoils- shut up Sam, pie is road food- they pulled out and hit the freeway. Sam and Dean painted a cheerful undertone of playful banter beneath the music, and Castiel was left to his thoughts which inevitably turned to the enigma of the brothers in the front seat.

He’d heard enough about Sam- smart kid, ran away to college, real nice- but it was different seeing him with his own eyes rather than secondhand through Dean’s. He did seem nice. Quiet, thoughtful. Reserved to Dean’s vigor. Physically, the brother’s hardly seemed related, what with Dean’s angular male model looks, his flashing green eyes and ruggedness, whereas Sam was all height, his face rounder and nose more pointed under all that hair. And hell, the sideburns.

And yet there was something about the two of them together, the way Dean adjusted to Sam’s minute movements when they stood together, the way he watched Sam from the corner of his eye like he was just about to throw himself in front of a bullet- it was strange and it made him wonder.

An hour or so after the sun went down they pulled into a little dive in a little town not worth mentioning, just a few houses and stores surrounding a long stretch of road. The restaurant was a picturesque American diner, complete with red booths cracked and bleeding foam and metal sheets on the wall advertising coke for a nickel. The diner was empty save for a couple sharing ice cream in a thick glass.

Dean led the way to a booth near the door and Sam slid in next to Castiel, his this pressing warm against his own in the small seat. As Dean arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth to comment, the kitchen doors opened and a pretty brunette woman stepped out with menus tucked beneath her arm, her heels clacking on the tile.

“Hi boys,” she smiled. “My name is Bess, and I’ll be your server. Y’all from out of town?”

“Yes ma’am,” replied Dean as she laid out the menus. His eyes were flirtatious. “Just drove in.”

“Well it’s lovely to see you. Can I get your drinks...?”

He had to admit, they were the best burgers he’d had in his life. Bess laughed when they all ordered the same thing, two of the house special, but she brought the baskets out anyway. Sam got his with onion rings instead of french fries, and Dean took great delight in stealing a few from him. But the burgers, the burgers were good.

Dean insisted on paying, and Castiel swore he’d get the next ticket, and then they piled back into the Impala. Full of warm food and blessed with good company, Castiel fell asleep quickly.

* * *

“Up, Cas.”

He groaned and pushed his face farther into the pillows. They smelled of chlorine and cheap cleaners, and something else, something mildewy.

“Cas, now.”

He felt something whump into his side- felt like another pillow thrown from the other bed- and he groaned again. Tossing back the blankets, Castiel curled onto his side and nearly tumbled off the bed. Then he stood, blinking groggily.

Sam was in the doorway, his foot propping open the door as Dean tossed a bag to him; a second duffel was in his free hand. Dean was raking through the opposite bed for loose belongings, his own duffel swinging from his arm. It had been late when they’d gotten in the night before and Castiel hadn’t even changed when the brothers woke him up in the motel parking lot.

“Cas, get your stuff, let’s go,” Dean barked as Sam entered the hall. “On the road in five minutes.”

Castiel stumbled to the bathroom as Dean followed his brother down the hall and had barely the time to brush his teeth before Dean was back, grabbing him by the shirt collar and tugging him out with a grin and a gibe about his bedhead. He found himself in the backseat again and changed shirts while Sam ran in the return their keys, swapping a grey shirt for a soft navy one. Dean fiddled with the stereo. Then they were off, the brothers whooping and Castiel wondering why in the hell he was being dragged around at six thirty in the morning.

Just as they’d turned onto the highway, Dean muttered something unintelligible.

“What?” Sam asked. He’d already turned on something loud and drummy, some classic rock cassette with the sharpie label all but scratched off. To Castiel it sounded like more AC/DC.

“Nothing, Sammy,” Dean called back.

“Dude,” said the younger brother, one hand darting out to flick the volume down. “Sammy’s a chubby twelve year old. It’s Sam. And could you turn that down?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you-” came the cheerful reply as Dean turned the knob back up and fixed Sam with a spectacular shit eating grin. “The music’s too loud.”

They arrived in Memphis around lunch and stopped for fast food before following the numerous (and increasingly outlandish) black and white signs leading to Graceland.

Graceland was everything he expected, except worse.

The upper limits of the house were blocked off, including the bathroom where the house’s previous owner had kicked the bucket. They took a tour with an overly enthusiastic guide and a group of tourists with easy-access cameras. The gift shop was the worst; mugs, license plates, shirts, blow up dolls, costumes. It was more than a little sickening.

By the time they got out the sun was dipping over the horizon, bathing the city in rich, pink-gold light. His stomach growling, Castiel suggested they head for the main streets and grab a bite to eat. Together the trio walked from their hotel to Beale Street, following the brass music notes embedded in the concrete. Peter Guralnick, Ernest Withers; Castiel posed excitedly before Presley’s as Sam snapped a picture, and Dean did the same before Johnny Cash’s. They wandered the street and settled on a place on the corner, BBKing’s Blues Bar. A woman welcomed them at the door; over the noise of a live band she brought them to a table on the second level.

“What’ll you have to drink tonight, boys?” she asked cheerfully after laying three laminated menus on the table. She was pretty, her hair tied back in a severe updo and her dark skin glowing with blush.

Dean ordered some beer off tap, and Sam followed with iced tea. “I’ll have a Fallen Angel,” Castiel said when she moved to him. The waitress smiled and scribbled something in her pad of paper as Dean waggled his eyebrows at him.

“Look Sammy, even Cas’s not afraid to get a little dirty.”

 Sam rolled his eyes. Below them on the first floor the band was prepping for another set, the shaggy haired lead talking to the crowd. All three were dressed in tight jeans, black vests, and fedoras, but the drummer boasted a nice looking pair of wingtips sneakers. Waiters and waitresses moved among the tables with trays of drinks and meals, stopping here and there to chat, to joke, to ask for orders. The windows of the back were tinted red, giving the crook of the balcony a dull tinge, but the front doors were thrown wide and lit the whole place.

The brothers squabbled over their orders and Castiel allowed his gaze to drift over the crowd below. They were seated just by the railing; the second level made a stretched U sort of shape, and they were in the middle of the long center piece and it gave a good view of the stage and tables below. Most of the patrons seemed to be older, mostly mid-forties or fifties, a few younger groups like their own, and a family here and there. When the waitress returned he ordered ribs, as did Dean. Sam chose a vegetarian pasta, much to his brother’s amusement, but his teasing was outshadowed as the band struck up another song.

_Well get out of that bed, wash your face and hands- Get out of that bed, wash your face and hands. Well get in that kitchen, make some noise with the pots and pans. I believe it to my soul you're the devil in nylon hose. I believe it to my soul you're the devil in nylon hose. For the harder, I work the faster, my money goes._

Dean sipped his beer and smirked crookedly as a smile ghosted across Castiel’s lips and he clapped along; even Sam grinned into his drink.

“Well I said shake, rattle and roll,” Castiel sang, cocking his head and raising a brow as Dean laughed. Dean had a nice laugh, all rich, shaking through his shoulders, his whole body. It went nice with the crowd cheering, the others singing with him. “I said shake rattle and roll!”

_I said shake, rattle and roll! I said shake rattle and roll! Well you won't do right to save your doggone soul._

A period of time- and many, many drinks- later, Castiel and Dean were wandering down one of the main streets together. It was wide, with large bricks laying the walkway and a thick metal track for the trollies. Lights glimmered overhead and in the windows of the shops lining the street; Memphis had a strange architecture, as if someone had rebuilt the first floors of all the buildings and put glass panels for walls but left the faded brickwork on all the other floors.

Castiel was trying very hard not to let Dean see how much he was stumbling. Truth be told, he had a high tolerance, but he was pretty sure he’d had more than Dean and Sam combined and the alcohol was making him dizzy with giddiness. But of course, there were enough bumps in the road to make anyone trip, and the fifth or sixth time he brushed against Dean, the man sighed, chuckled, and steered him gently to the front of a little ice cream parlor.

“Cas,” he said, leaning close to peer into his eyes with humored concern. “Cas, you okay? Wanna go back to the hotel?”

He could smell the beer on Dean’s breath. “I suggest we imbibe copious amounts of alcohol,” he said blearily. Dean’s face swam before his eyes; he looked like he was grinning, but Castiel wasn’t sure. As he was trying to figure it out, Dean’s arm wormed around his back, his shoulder bracing the bridge of Castiel’s chest and arm. Together, they made their way back to the hotel.

Sam was showering when they got back so Dean pushed Castiel in the direction of the bed and he sat, and then Dean sat on the floor beside him, his arm touching the length of Castiel’s dangling calf.

“Cas, you’re drunk.”

Castiel snorted, because it was the most obvious thing in the world and something about the way Dean said it, with that curl to his lips, made it sound really funny so then he was laughing, great bubbles of laugher tickling his sides and making him stretch his mouth into a smile so hard that it ached. He could feel Dean laughing with him after a beat, his shoulders shaking against Castiel’s leg. It felt nice, this laughter.

Embolden by the lightness of it, he reached out and set his palm on the top of Dean’s head, humming with satisfaction as he felt the spiky strands thread through his fingers.

Sam chose that moment to walk out of the bathroom, his hair damp and a thin shirt sticking to his damp chest. He stopped in the doorway and surveyed them both. “Cas, are you _drunk_?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he replied. Dean snickered and stood.

“Right,” Dean said. “Cas,” -he made a gesture- “stay. Here. Okay? We’re going out.” They were at the door now; Sam was standing in the hall. “I’m gunna go see if that Kelsey chick is still there,” he said excitedly to Sam.

“She’s a whore,” Castiel called, grinning.

“ _Cas_ ,” came a mortified Sam.

He allowed his body to fwump back onto the bed, and then he curled over on his side, nuzzling into the blankets with a content sound. The booze made him feel warm and fuzzy, and it wouldn’t be long...

He woke stretched beneath the blankets, a warm arm thrown carelessly over his waist. Snoring, from the other bed; Castiel lifted his head slightly to see Sam’s massive form sprawled in the opposite bed.

The body beside him moved, all heat and soft breathing. Castiel turned his head slightly.

It was Dean, of course. He could see the freckle at his throat, shifting with his soft breathing. The man looked oddly peaceful.

Castiel sighed and nuzzled into the pillow. Sleep reclaimed him quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dfjwadklsf wow, I'm all over the place today.
> 
> I'm going for a mid-season seven look on Sam, with the sideburns and the longish hair, but I know some of the quotes are from earlier seasons.
> 
> In case you guys didn't know, Lailah is the (female) Biblical angel of night. Dekan's name is Croatian for "Dean Thirty-Six" which is a reference to the thirty six unknown righteous men.
> 
> A "fallen angel" mixed drink consists of:  
> 1 1/2 oz gin  
> 1/2 tsp creme de menthe  
> juice of 1/2 lemons  
> 1 dash of bitters  
> 1 cherry


End file.
